I barely know You
by Assassination
Summary: Desmond Miles was the type of person no one expected anything great from, he served drinks at a bar and then was captured by a corporation who wants to use him to find something. When everything he knows is stripped from him, he has to start anew. R
1. Meds

**FFV's note: **I'm going to forewarn you readers that I haven't played Assassin's Creed in two - or three - years so expect this to be kinda...not in character. School kills us all and keeps us away from our hobbies... Anyway, this might not make any real sense to anyone since this came at a very inappropriate time, seeing as I didn't have any paper on me to write the whole idea down. I hope you enjoy though and help me out. (I'll be playing Assassin's Creed over my Thanksgiving break to help myself out)  
_This is a request fic from: Despair-Sama._ (I mainly decided to take a crack at it since it'll be something new from what I usually type and I love challenges)

* * *

Desmond Miles was the kind of man one would not expect the most from, not at all. He was just a simple bartender, lived a relatively normal life -

But this was way before a scientist found an interest in him, just a simple lab-rat subject. That was all he was needed for. Being dragged from his completely normal, calm and happy, life and thrust into one of a living Hell. All he was told was, "Mr. Miles, come with us and we promise to take good care of you."

Even as there were men with guns in the background behind the old man who was speaking to him.

Not a way he planned to continue his life, all he wanted to do was keep a low-profile, not being called an 'assassin' in front of his - former - coworkers then being dragged away while kicking and shouting how they had the wrong guy and to look somewhere else. How in the hell could he be related to Altair ibn-La'Ahad? Related to an assassin at that. It made no sense.

It boggled his mind to the point there he'd been so confused he hadn't realized until it was too late that he'd been thrown into a room with a bed, a closet, a bathroom, and a door that would be sealed shut each night due to a password he didn't know.

This seemed worse than when he was younger and had to sneak out of school when he didn't feel like going.

Something was definitely wrong and he knew it, Desmond wasn't one to believe in ghosts but he did believe in that certain superstitious feeling one got whenever something bad was about to happen. This was one of those moments he wished he would have died when that glass slit his face, leaving a scar on the right side of his face. Over his lips, to be more accurate.

The first day he was placed on the Animus, it completely freaked him out. The surround area was one that he'd never known to exist. The bloodshed he saw through golden spheres had his blood run cold, the man who he was 'inside' was emotionless, didn't care about a damn thing unless it helped with his plan. What freaked the bartender out the most was how this man's left ring finger was gone, up to the first joint from the knuckle. Just thinking of how grotesque it must have looked once the finger was either chopped off or even torn off had Desmond's stomach flip.

He felt like a prisoner within this assassin's body, he was trapped and couldn't turn his eyes away from what was going on.

Then he was stabbed by the 'head hancho' of this cult, pain coursed within his system, senses linked so closely with his ancestor's own. And once everything went dark within the assassin's vision, it effected Desmond's own, causing him to jerk awake once he was pulled out of the system.

Shaking hands instantly clapped over his face and brought his legs up, knees curled and coughed for a moment before relaxing and glancing over at the old man beside him. "What's up, Doc?" he asked, somewhat rude as he turned, hands placed on the cold metal and legs dangling.

"Well, Lucy here wanted to give you a break, Mr. Miles,"

A silent 'Thank you' was given, though Desmond pushed himself up and off of the machine as he was instructed to go rest. "Hot damn..." he muttered, brows furrowed as he shoved his hands into his worn jeans' pockets. Hearing Lucy suggest they, she and the scientist, go to the other room to converse about the issue they were now having.

That was the first day.

Right now Desmond was contained within the area for a whole week now. Slowly he'd grown used to the feeling of invading one's life through, somewhat, being sent back to the past to experience it himself. There were complaints from Warren as he tried to urge the ever-so-caring Lucy to keep the 'subject' within the memories longer than desired.

They did it for an extra thirty minutes, only to then regret it once a sickness had taken over the dark haired man. Headaches occurred in violent pulses, enough to make him topple over whenever they attempted to take him to the Animus. Just before they were within ten feet of it Desmond would collapse with a groan, then after three days of this Warren had demanded that the middle-aged Miles take medication to make this stop so they could continue finding 'it'.

Whatever 'it' was the former bartender had no idea.

Reluctantly he'd taken the pills, at the time instructed, how many he was told to take, and soon he'd become well enough that they could fully get him to the machine to sync him with Altair ibn-La'Ahad. Whatever this industry was searching for must have been very important since the older man was becoming very impatient with their slow progress, especially since they were set back three days and needed to hurry.

Letting out a grunt, Desmond lifted himself up on the Animus. Turning he then let himself fall back slowly to rest upon the cold metal once again. The screen made a 'swooshing' sound as it crawled over his vision. Closing his eyes the man let out a soft breath, reopening them too see the machine glitching though Lucy was moving about like nothing was wrong.

"'ey, Luc-"

Reaching a hand up to make a stopping motion dark orbs widened to see that said limb began to fade. This was the moment when Lucy glanced over and cried out in shock, which in return had Warren hurry over.

"What did you do?" the man shouted at her, seeing the blonde woman shake her head and protesting that she'd only done what she always did. "Fix this!"

"Uh...Doc..."

Both scientists glanced over and the last thing Desmond saw was the woman cover her mouth after mouthing, "Oh my God..."

Then all was a bright flash of light, pupils dilating, causing the lightly tanned man to lift his arms to cover his eyes. His sweater's sleeves did a wonderful job of protecting his vision. For once grateful for the shaggy clothing he'd been given to change into.

Lowering his arms after seeing the bright shine lower in hue, Desmond blinked and stared in front of himself. "...oh shit."


	2. Leap of Faith

**FFV's note: **I'm going to forewarn you readers that I haven't played Assassin's Creed in two - or three - years so expect this to be kinda...not in character. School kills us all and keeps us away from our hobbies... Anyway, this might not make any real sense to anyone since this came at a very inappropriate time, seeing as I didn't have any paper on me to write the whole idea down. I hope you enjoy though and help me out. (I'll be playing Assassin's Creed over my Thanksgiving break to help myself out)  
_This is a request fic from: Despair-Sama._ (I mainly decided to take a crack at it since it'll be something new from what I usually type and I love challenges)

* * *

Glancing about, he realized he was in the middle of a plaza. It seemed that he was in Jerusalem, well, the Jerusalem back in 1191. Twisting his upper half to gaze over and see if he could figure where he was exactly. Swallowing he bit his lower lip with furrowed brows.

Some guards were surrounding the area, attentive and almost on high security. They seemed uneasy and restless while the ones atop the roof searched frantically for whoever had caused the rising fear inside the area.

Stepping forth a few steps Desmond took in his appearance, his shaggy clothing was still resting upon his figure then realized that he was not dressed for this time period.

The Templers heading his way now proved that he would be the most questionable being for miles around. Taking a step back his eyes widened once the Templers picked up their pace and soon came at a full run towards him, causing him to curse and turn to bolt off, weaving through the crowd with occasional shoves to the people who had gotten in his way. Turning into an alleyway the bartender panted, forcing himself to keep his footing as he then smiled from relief once he noticed a ladder.

Grabbing onto the rod he began his haste to the roof, stopping two from the top to see a man staring down at him, holding both a bow and the arrow slung back, snug against the string.

"Shit," he growled, reaching his right hand out to grab onto the man's ankle and jerked his arm back to make the Templer fall off the roof with a startled cry.

Finally getting up on the roof, the other enemies at his heels as Desmond ran over the rooftops. His hood flapped in the wind while the flaps of his clothing whipped about in a violent manner.

"Kill the assassin!"

_I'm not a fucking assassin, dammit!_

Dark spheres widened once he noticed that he was rapidly reaching a ledge. Gritting his teeth he closed his eyes once his left foot hit the last step and forced himself over to the other side, reaching his hand out to grab onto the window's bars to the building across from the one he'd lept from. Slowly, knowing his hands had a hold on something Desmond glanced over his shoulder with a worried look.

Even if he was far away there was another archer holding their weapon at the ready and aiming at him.

"...why me?" he muttered, turning his head to look up and placed his sneakered shoe on a brick sticking out then began his assent up the building with harsh beats of his heart warning him that if he didn't move faster he'd either plummet to his death or be shot down then fall to his death.

The tanned man almost lost his hold once he saw an arrow nick the space just beside his face, the head almost cutting his cheek completely open. Grunting he recomposed himself, steeling himself and reminding himself over and over that he was a decsendent of an assassin so he shouldn't fear this and be more controlled.

Though that did not change the fact that he was almost killed by that arrow.

Panting heavily he clung to the little hope that he'd get away even if more Templers were after him instead of the real assassin. Tisking and reaching the top, he slumped over, breathing in and out in puffs. "Damn...how the...hell does he..." Desmond wheezed, eyes halfway shut, "...do it?"

Even if he'd been able to be inside Altair's memories it didn't change the fact that he didn't absorb any of the stamina. Sure the dark haired Miles had done well in gym, got a B- but this was nothing compared to that. This, what was happening right now, was more taxing than running around in a circle for an hour and able to pace how fast you wanted to go.

And your life wasn't at risk for your limited endurance.

"There he is!"

Jerking his head up Desmond pushed himself up and glanced around for a hay wagon. Dark circles darted about then landed on a miracle. Just what he'd been searching for. Running ahead he lept off the building, the wind slapping his body, giving the illusion that he was floating while bracing himself for death if he underestimated the distance of the leap.

The crowd stared up after noticing a shadow upon the ground, almost thinking the jumping man was an angel falling to the ground to 'save them from their sins.'

But Desmond knew this was a suicidal attempt to escape death via Templer guard.

Eyes watched him closely. Cold hues flickered from their position on the stone bench, the possessor of such dangerous spheres was hunched over, eyes ever so observant while watching someone else try to do a perfect 'Leap of Faith.' The pose was just as it should be, just like how he'd jump from a structure into a pile of hay. Arms were draped over his knees, clothed in white, hood covering his face.

_...they will not make it._ crossed his mind as he shifted to stand, pushing off the bench while some people pointed at the falling figure, calling him insane and mad.

Desmond opened his eyes then knew right then he wasn't going to make it to the hay stack.

_Fuck me..._ he thought with his teeth clamping onto his bottom lip._ I'm gonna die, wonderful...goodbye world._

Screwing his eyes shut his left arm went to cover his face, mentally saying his goodbyes before he crashed onto the ground and every bone crunched, collapsing on each other and puncture organs to make him bleed internally and on the outside.

After a few moments and not feeling impact Desmond hesitantly lowered his arm to see what had prevented him from crashing. All he saw was white fabric, red brimming a belt's outline and then he noted the trio of brown straps connecting to one point, curling themselves around a silver sphere.

Then, even as Templers cried out that they'd found him once more, the decedent let his eyes crawl up slowly with wide orbs before landing on the shadowed face.

"...Altair," passed his lips in a hushed whisper.


	3. Left Behind

**FFV's note: **I'm going to forewarn you readers that I haven't played Assassin's Creed in two - or three - years so expect this to be kinda...not in character. School kills us all and keeps us away from our hobbies... Anyway, this might not make any real sense to anyone since this came at a very inappropriate time, seeing as I didn't have any paper on me to write the whole idea down. I hope you enjoy though and help me out. (I'm replaying Assassin's Creed but it may take a while for me to get them fully in character...)  
_This is a request fic from: Despair-Sama._ (I mainly decided to take a crack at it since it'll be something new from what I usually type and I love challenges)

* * *

Honey-brown spheres were narrowed at hearing his name slip past lips to a person he didn't know in the least. Though the cold eyes flickered upwards to the hurrying crowd of the guards who held their swords up and at the ready. Releasing Desmond the assassin stepped around him and towards the Templers.

Altair's right hand reached for his sword, grasping the calloused handle and pulling his arm to the side. The light struck the blade wonderfully, giving it the illusion of being a weapon of the angels. Of the eagles who found their prey.

Deep chocolate spheres were wide once he saw all the Templers charge at his ancestor, jumping back once a blade swung at him.

The white clothed man twisted his body, leaping up and swinging his blade to slice the guards' arms, thrusting his left leg forth to kick one into the crowd while pushing himself back. His left hand's fingers spread, his blade slipping out while he shoved his hand forth into a Templer's face. Desmond turned his head, everything seemed to be in slow motion. The hidden blade the assassin possessed going through the head's open mouth, slicing off the tongue and slicing through the back of the throat. Yanking his arm back Altair watched the body fall, hearing screams and shrieks of horror echoing about the area. The sounds slammed against the bartender's senses, crashing over him and swallowed thickly once those hawk-like spheres shifted to look upon him.

Even if the hood covered the man's face Desmond knew that those eyes were on him and only him.

Are you afraid? That unspoken sentence hung in the air, making the younger tense up as the man turned to fully face him, expression blank as it usually was.

They seemed to stare at one another for what felt like hours before Desmond glanced to the side to see even more of those nusinces heading their way with weapons and senseless cries of that they found them and to get more to take them down. Shifting his foot back he swung his fist at the first one to reach them. The impact did little but made the Templer stumble back, giving him enough time to lift his right leg and slam his foot into his opponent's mid-section.

Hunching over to cough, Desmond grabbed onto the other's head, bringing his knee up to introduce it with the man's face. Which in return had the guard cry out in pain before the dark haired Miles shoved him towards the other Templers.

Altair on the other hand was busy trying to keep the younger assassin from the harm of the enemy's blade. Sliding the planes of it against the sharpened edge he soon disarmed the guard and shifted his left hand to grab the sword flying within the air before slicing the offender's head clean off.

Screams of terror sounded around the two relatives as Desmond took the offered weapon to slit a stomach open, organs pouring out before he stepped back quickly before a sword hit him.

_Too many -_

A hand took his arm captive and Desmond's lips parted from shock as he glanced behind to see Altair sheathing his sword and hurrying away from the Templers, tugging the younger along. Dark eyes were wide before his chest heaved as they weaved through the crowd. Pushing his limit the young Miles bit his tongue to keep his mind in check.

Reminding himself that he could be killed if he tripped or stopped to catch his breath.

"Holy shit!" slipped past his lips once he was tossed into a haystack, stumbling with a groan once he landed. The scraps fell over his form, the lightly tanned man rolling into the middle of the hay to hide well.

Closing his eyes Desmond rubbed his face then his elbow which took the most impact before his eyes snapped open once he heard the clanging of swords then the padding of the soles to shoes heading into an all together different direction from where he lay. Realization then hit him.

_That bastard left me!_ crossed his mind with furrowed brows, turning to place his left hand on the ground, peeking out from a thin slit to see that a guard was still standing there, glancing about._ ...he didn't...he's got all those fuckers after him now!_

Dark orbs shifted down, seeing the sword he'd dropped. Swallowing thickly he slid his hand out and gripped the handle, breath catching in his throat once the metal clacked against the stoned flooring. Snapping up into a standing position as the guard turned while getting his own weapon. Thrusting his left hand out he gripped the fabric to the Templer's clothing to tug him forth and shoving the blade into the being's chest. Blood poured down, slipping along the length of the blood and drenching Desmond's sleeve. The crimson fluid dripped down the guard's lips and chin, little droplets hitting the ground.

Breathing in heavily, deep chocolate spheres were narrowed then his hand shakily released the shirt, staring down at the body then slowly looking over at his stained sleeve and flesh.

"Shit..." he breathed, lifting his head to see a young boy staring at him. A teen by the looks of it and the boy looked dumbfounded. "...this's bad..."

Turning on his heel swiftly he rushed in a random direction to go hide and hopefully find his ancestor at the same time. His legs felt like jello and his muscles protested at the strain he was giving them. Lips were parted, releasing quick breaths while also breathing in a desperate manner. Desmond's eyes were full of shock and horror as to how he could simply kill a human being just to get away from danger.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_


	4. Ruffled Feathers

**Assassination's Note:** I have various things to say as to why I haven't updated in the longest while, such as a shitty wannabe therapist trying to 'fix' my 'problem' and whatnot, there was also my birthday disaster plus...the dreaded Valentine's Day. Let's just say a crapload has prevented me from updating plus conflict about whether I should focus on Altair for most of the chapter or just Desmond. Alas, I have returned with a chapter. I'm going to apologize right now if they are not in character - need to get back to playing Assassin's Creed AGAIN. See, I stopped after killing that 'Fat Bastard' who could run like a MOFO - was insanity I tell you...  
_This is a request fic from: Despair-Sama._ (I mainly decided to take a crack at it since it'll be something new from what I usually type and I love challenges)**

* * *

**His shoes scrapped along the surface of the tiled building, his sword sheathed while his honey spheres shifted about to find a place to escape notice, furrowing his brows as more and more guards came at him. Ducking his head Altair then slammed his elbow against the guard's chest, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground.

"Kill the assassin!"

Gritting his teeth the white clothed man glanced back before veering to look forth and darted off once more with narrowed eyes. It seemed as if this had been going on for a long while, then again he never had to toss a civilian into a haystack he could have used to concealing himself. A civilian who knew his name, a man who wore such odd attire. Twisting as he reached a ladder he scaled down then thrust it to the side once his shoed feet tapped the ground. With that done he plopped his bottom down on the bench beside the ladder he'd shoved.

Surprised cries rang out in the alleyway as guards fell from the roof, having not stopped in time. Golden spheres flickered dangerously as a sickening crack slit the screams' volume.

A sadistic smirk tugged at Altair's lips while he hunched over in the seat as the two women beside him jerked up into a standing position, hands covering their mouths with a shriek of fear before they turned and ran off. Even then he continued to sit there, watching the man squirm about upon the dirt ground, grabbing at his leg which had bent in an awkward position.

Indeed, this was a pleasant twist upon his day.

"Argh! Agggh! My leg!"

Raising his head the assassin peered down on the male who turned, placing his hand on the ground while looking back up at the face of a man who doesn't bother to regret a thing he does.

Those eyes were flashing with the peach lips parting to reveal his teeth, the left side tugged up more into a murderous smirk. Promising death and misery for those who were graced with such a sight.

"...n...no...!"

Slowly he stood, reaching for his sword. A swift motion later a head was rolling a little a ways away.

Blood pooled out onto the ground, drenching it with the crimson shade that caused Altair's lips to twitch upwards. Metallic assaulted those around's senses, causing them to stumble back with a gag while the man swung his arm to the side which had the blood flick off before sliding it back into its sheath. Turning on his heel expertly he then walked off, leaving the scene and headless body behind him.

* * *

Desmond turned on his heel, eyes darting from side to side as a scream pierced his senses._ ...what the hell was that?_ crossed his thoughts before blinking sharply once he caught the sight of a mop of raven locks, stern features with a scowl attached to this man's face._ ...Malik..._

No doubt, it was said A-Sayf. A relieved look passed the bartender's features as his shoulders slumped from such joy to know that he'd found someone else he knew - though he seemed to toss aside the fact that he wasn't Altair.

So without any further adieu he began his jog over but abruptly stopped once a crowd of pot holders began to get in his way, passing in front of him. Growling internally he stood on his toes, swaying from side to side, his chocolate spheres intent on the man he was now seeking out. Malik would give him answers, at least Desmond hoped. Then again with him looking like Altair in the physical stature the descendant doubted he'd gain much, but it was worth a try.

Yeah, be optimistic...even if he was, both literally and figuratively, fucked over royally.

Swallowing thickly he felt his patience waning with each step the stubborn man took away from the area. _No, no...stay there..._ Desmond pleaded through his thoughts,_ Stay. Don't go, dammit!_

Malik suddenly paused and turned slightly, facing a stand who was offering a variety of food. A dumbfounded look crossed the young male's features at his luck before clenching his hand into a fist, jerking his elbow back with a low, 'Yes!'

"Hmm..." The raven haired bureau leader furrowed his brows as he leaned forth, his dark shaded orbs staring down on the apples set up for display on the somewhat nice day. "...I will only take three."

"Indeed, sir," was the only response before the one armed man began to slide the apples into his outfit's pockets in the back. Closing his eyes while doing this he soon reopened them, slipping his hand to his dagger, spinning harshly, blade stalling a mere centimeter before slitting Desmond's throat. "O-oh my!"

"Uh..." Hands raised in a defensive position, a nervous smile on the younger's features. "...I come in peace?"

Silence floated over both men's heads, a heavy blanket weighting Desmond's ulterior down while shivering at the icy stare he was getting. Eventually the bureau leader flipped the dagger to have the blade facing downward before slipping it back into the sheath.

"That was quite the pathetic performance, novice."

_I knew it..._

"Look, you don't understand I'm not -" Desmond paused instantly once he then caught sight of guards and a few Templers heading their way, looking obviously flustered, their feathers ruffled to the point the brunet didn't think they'd be smoothed in any fashion. "Y'know...let's talk about that later, I don't think I wanna be around to see what they'll do..."

"What do you -"

In a rush of adrenaline Desmond's hand shot out to grab onto Malik's arm. "No time." he urged.


	5. Building Trust

**Assassination's Note:** I would like to apologize for those who have been patiently waiting for this chapter to come out - and I'm sure said patience snapped after a while and you were cursing me like no tomorrow - but I have to admit something...I can't do chase scenes very well, that and I was trying to figure out how to continue this since I was still very new with Malik's personality. (which I'm confident about now since I was RPing with him with my friend) So here we are, enjoy.

* * *

He couldn't understand this situation while he was being dragged along by - who he thought was - Altair, that arrogant novice he decided he'd loathe for years to come, and even when he died he'd continue to hate his 'brother.' But by this action of retreating from the soldiers had Malik ponder on if this was a mirror image of his fellow assassin or if Altair was just messing with him.

Though he took into account of the attire this boy was wearing and that he didn't possess any weapons on his person. So perhaps this _was_ someone else.

They turned a corner and Desmond skid to a stop, panting as he veered from side to side. Swallowing thickly before turning around sideways and peering over his shoulder to the dark haired A-Sayf. "W...where's the bureau?"

Hearing this had a dumbfounded look cross Malik's features before it morphed to one of fury and irritation. "What do you mean 'where's the bureau'? You drag me around and then stop to ask me such a question -"

Releasing the one arm the other possessed the brunet turned around completely with a frown, his features now a complete replica of his ancestor's. "Look, I'm going to say this _once_ and only once: I'm not Altair. Now, if you want answers..."

Desmond saw that look in the dark hues the other owned, watched as they narrowed in a demanding manner.

"...then tell me which way your bureau is."

After what felt like hours of staring, days of just glaring, years of debating, Malik finally relented with a deep frown. As if not trusting this man whom claimed he was not Altair, that he was someone else. Which he had every right to do but when his eyes took into account the chocolate hues, how serious they were, how determined and yet so sincere in their own way. As if promising the dark haired dai that no harm would befall him should it come to a fight.

Quite a difference from the look Altair possessed at Solomen's Temple.

Letting out a soft exhale Malik swallowed, eyes falling halfway shut before motioning to the front of himself then a bit a ways to the right. Nodding with this information passed his way Desmond peered around the corner with a cautious look.

Personally, he would rather avoid a fight rather than having killed another person on his conscious. Then again...he'd already killed one person, what could another do to him? Maybe have him turn away and vomit upon the streets - dirt road - whatever one would describe it as.

That and the first stain would have a companion to join it upon his clothes.

Oh, God, he needed to clean these or acquire new attire before he was chased more than usual because of these Templars searching for assassins and troublemakers and all that shit. One less thing he need on his 'Fuck my Life' list.

Noticing that there was no one around he released a long breath and veered over his shoulder to the dai, taking note of how unpleased he seemed about this. A nervous lump formed in the ex-bartender's throat as he pondered on what would happen if, or when, they got to the bureau, what the other man would do the moment they were safe. Forcing himself to swallow and focus the brunet moved forth, motioning for Malik to follow.

That was then that he caught the sound of footsteps atop the rooftop above him. Jerking his head back the man frowned deeply as he watched the one he'd motioned leap across to the other roof.

_Are you fucking kidding me...?_ was all that had crossed his mind, blinking once he saw the one armed A-Sayf motion behind him. Turning sideways to see exactly why he had done so, eyes widening as he saw exactly what he didn't need to.

Guards.

Well, wasn't that just swell? Mentally groaning at this he took a step back and raised his hands immediately once they drew out their weapons. "Whoa, hold on..." he started then stiffened as he heard one cry, "Assassin," and leapt back from a blade aiming for his stomach. "Shit!"

His heel tapped the ground and tripped back, gritting his teeth as the lightly tanned man turned, pressing a hand to the dirt surface, only to then see why they had been so hasty to attack him. The blood on his sleeves.

At this moment he figured God hated him and wanted him to suffer for whatever the hell he'd done.

Though now was not the time to think about such trivial things.

Desmond glanced over at the guards, one once again swinging his blade. Pushing away, having his left arm nicked, a hiss passing his lips before furrowing his brows, thrusting his right leg up, foot kicking a man's hand. This action causing him to drop the sword.

Quickly getting to his feet, the twenty-five year old snatched up the dropped weapon and moved his hand in a diagonal line upwards to block an attempted strike from his being distracted with picking it up. Steel clashed, the sound ringing in the man's ears.

It almost caused him to flinch.

But there was no time to hesitate in this situation, especially with the fact that he was outnumbered and Malik had probably ditched him like Altair had - even if he was forced to do so.

Sighing heavily on the inside Desmond shifted his foot back to gain more balance and moved his other hand to grasp the handle of the blade with furrowed brows. Out numbered or not, he had to win this fight, whatever the cost. Pushing his weight forth he forced the Templar to back off, bringing his sword to his side then thrusting it forth into the guard's chest.

Blood bloomed and slipped down the steel, then onto his hands once more.

Forcing himself to ignore it, the bartender rose his left foot and kicked the corpse off his sword and then raised it to swing it down on a slant, slicing one from the shoulder halfway into their chest. Though this time Desmond released his hold on the sword and turned on his heel to introduce his fist to the third's face.

While he was doing this the forth Templar had pulled out his dagger and zeroed his sights on the man's left shoulder. Pressing the palm of his hand to the hilt he shoved it in the direction of his target, hitting its mark and causing Desmond to grit his teeth and close his eyes tightly.

Leaving an opening for the man he was about to strike, and said man taking this opportunity to punch him in the gut. Gasping out Desmond hunched over and coughed with a pained expression on his face, lifting his head up to see that the third guard had pulled out a knife and was about to slam it down into his spine.

_Shit...!_ Brown spheres widened as that wicked grin turned into a smug smirk the closer it got. _Shit - no!_

Taking in what could have been his last breath the young Miles clamped his eyes shut and tensed. Ready to feel the pain, ready to die, yet nothing came.

Only the sound of a thud and a, "Who is there? Show yourself!" from the man behind him.

Slowly a chocolate sphere opened, then the other, noticing that there was a throwing knife in the deceased Templar's neck. Blinking and placing an arm around his waist he stood erect abruptly at the sound of a gurgled scream of agony.

Whipping around he felt absolutely relieved once he saw Malik.

The man seemed to be looking at something and after a dribble of blood slipped down the younger man's back did he know what said object was being stared at. Yet before he could do anything the dark haired dai reached out, gripped the handle to the dagger and yanked the blade out of his flesh.

Which got a pained inhale of breath through grit teeth and Desmond trying not to show how much it hurt.

"...come, novice, I must bandage those wounds."

Desmond felt a weak smile tug at his lips, perhaps he was imagining it but he could have sworn he heard worry lacing itself in the man's words. "Lead the way."


	6. God's on Holiday

**Assassination's note:** _So sorry_ that this took _forever_ to get out and posted. I'm VERY sorry. I hope that this makes up for it and hopefully they're still in character. (them being OOC is what terrifies me, truth be told)

* * *

Once Malik was inside the bureau, Desmond began his descent into said building. His right arm shook a bit due to the strain on the wound that had been inflicted. In all honesty, he was glad that the dai hadn't taken advantage of his condition and killed him, along with the fact that Malik even said he'd dress and take care of it.

Though the younger male didn't appreciate the addition of 'novice' to the sentence.

Gritting his teeth, the brunet placed his left hand into a slit just large enough for one's fingers and released the hold his right had on the ledge. Taking in a relieved exhale, Desmond let himself drop down, bending his knees to absorb the impact of the small fall, mindful of the small fountain at the bottom. The ex-bartender stood and glanced over his shoulder to see Malik returning with a bowl full of water, a rag hanging over the edge of the clay object, along with a dry one slung over the bureau leader's shoulder and thread and needle between the man's teeth.

_Oh shit._

That's right. People didn't have morphine, pain killers or anything to numb the pain that the assassin knew was to come.

Turning on his heel, Desmond reached back to remove his jacket, clenching his jaw to keep a soft grunt from escaping. His hands took hold of the fabric and pulled his arms forth as the younger male bent forth while tugging the article of clothing off. Secretly he was happy that the jacket obscured the view of his face as he made a pained expression, breathing in and out as if this was the norm.

When he finally got it off and tossed it aside, not even bothering to look at the damage that had been done.

Not that he minded. In that whack-job of an 'industry' he had about five more of those hoodies. All exactly the same size, style, feel...

Raising himself up into a standing posture once more, Desmond took note how Malik had gone to sit down on the mass of pillows that were perfectly situated in the corner of the room. A place he knew all too well, though only through Altair's eyes.

That's the only way he knew things in this timezone was only because of his ancestor. That was it, point blank.

"Are you going to sit down sometime soon?"

Blinking, Desmond pulled himself out of those thoughts rattling his mind, although a question came to mind that made this situation seem a bit off. He moved over, taking off his black undershirt, folding it and slowly settling his bottom onto the tiled flooring in front of the dark haired Al-Sayf. His honey-brown hues staring at the brick wall, closing them a bit with a contemplating look crossing his features.

"Hey..." the ex-bartender started, setting the shirt down to be cradled in his legs which were crossed and soon resting his elbows on his knees. "...how can you understand me? I thought that all you spoke S-"

"Simple."

He rose a brow, turning his head to look over at the dai whom was currently handing the needle to Desmond once he saw that the other was looking at him. Taking hold of said object, the young assassin patiently waited for the other to elaborate on what was so 'simple' about being able to understand and speak the language Desmond, himself, did.

Once pleased with how everything was placed and ready to start the cleaning process, Malik picked up the rag hanging over the edge of the bowl and dipped it into the water. "I have time to do what I please whenever I have nothing else to do. So, to put it simply, I have been studying the language you speak." Pulling the cloth out, he began to dab at the knife's target.

Which made an unintentional cringe come from the wounded assassin.

"Now, I have a question for you." One last dab was done then the dark haired man moved the rag down to wipe away the threads that had formed due to the blood slowly flowing out over time. "Who are you?"

Desmond returned his attention to the wall, a small shudder running down his spine from the air brushing over the water. "Desmond. Desmond Miles."

A soft hum was his response, the bloodied cloth removed from his flesh and placed back into the water. Soon it was replaced with the dry one, soaking up the bloodied water. "I am Malik."

_Yeah...I know._ crossed his mind, though Desmond didn't say it. He looked down on the needle, eyes closing as he twirled it between his fingers._ I know your name, I know about this place...I know you hate Altair and damn him to Hell..._

"Pleased to meet you."

There was no response from Malik until he tapped Desmond's shoulder to get him to glance over his shoulder, motioning for the needle to be handed over. Doing so, the brunet hissed once it was slipped under his skin and tugged through the separated part. Fuck, it hurt. Yes, he'd admit, it was painful and he was trying so hard not to jerk away or curse everything aloud.

He shifted his hands to grab onto his knees, digging his nails into the fabric of his pants as he grunted at the third time the needle slid through his flesh.

Absentmindedly the ex-bartender pondered on if Malik was having a hard time doing this with one hand. Then again, the man could get dressed, most likely needed to reapply bandages to his arm to prevent infection.

Though, wasn't infection common in this -

"Ow!"

Sudden yank was _not_ appreciated.

"I asked how you knew about the bureau." the dai pointed out with a certain bite to his tone.

Desmond looked down on his hands, seeing that they had relaxed somewhere along the process of his wound being sewn up. Swallowing thickly, he gnawed on his lower lip for a few moments before exhaling softly.

"I'm an assassin."

There was a pause from behind him. "...prove it."

Seriously? After he'd somewhat skillfully killed those guards, climbed with a bit of difficulty yet could keep up with the man, knew about the bureau...the man needed confirmation? This was just not his day.

_Well, it could be worse..._

"All righty...'Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent, hide in plain sight...'" he paused and took in a slightly pained breath.

"...and...?"

Desmond looked over at Malik with a grin. "'Don't compromise the Brotherhood.'"

There was a small twitch at the corner of his companion's mouth, as if he were about to smile and managed to stop himself in time. Or, worse case scenario, he unintentionally sounded like Altair.

Arrogant, ignorant, cocky... Oh, that sounded bad.

Though Desmond blinked once he saw that the man was, indeed, smiling. Just a bit.

Which was good, it meant that he wouldn't be killed or thrown out. Yet. Who knew when the dai would get sick of him sticking around and would simply toss him out onto the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back and the minimal amount of street smarts he possessed. If that were the case, the ex-bartender figured he may as well soak up whatever good luck that was tossed his way while it lasted.

When the smile vanished and was replaced with a serious look, however, Desmond swallowed thickly and mentally began praying just as he had before when he'd gotten to Jerusalem. That look meant trouble, it meant something bad was going to happen. It meant doom if someone answered whatever the man was going to say wrong.

In other words: death.

"Though you know the tenants, that tells very little as to where you reside from."

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit... God, you hate me, don't you?_

"W...well, that's true...but -"

Malik leaned forth and bit the end of the string to snap it after having secured it and, just as swiftly as he'd done that, he wrapped his arm around the younger male's neck. Pulling him against his chest, the dai's hand was turned so the needle's end was prodding at Desmond's neck in a threatening manner.

"How can I be sure you are not Templar scum attempting to infiltrate the assassins?" Malik growled, adding pressure to the poking. "You still possess your left ring finger."

Now, normally Desmond would laugh in a carefree manner - but this was an assassin. A trained killer, one who knew how to use whatever they could to their advantage and make even something as tiny as a _needle _look like a lethal weapon. So, instead of laughing, the brunet's heart was pounding as his pupils dilated and his breath hitched from fear. How stupid he had been to let his guard down around the Al-Sayf. How ignorant he'd been to think that the three tenants would have been enough to convince that he was what he claimed to be.

"...nothing to say?"

He couldn't move his hands from their spot, mind racing to come up with an answer that wouldn't, perhaps, alter time and all that.

"Then you shall d-"

"W-wait!" Desmond cried, eyes wide and looking about with panic twirling him around its finger. "Wait! I-I'm an assassin, I swear. I'm just...from far away. Far, far, far - fucking - away."

It seemed as if Malik were thinking over what he'd just proclaimed, seeing as the needle was no longer against his neck. "...and just where is this place?"

_Wow...I should've stolen someone's clothes..._ Raising his hands, Desmond froze when the needle returned to where it had originally been. _But no...I jammed my foot into my mouth._

"You wouldn't believe -"

"Try me," was ground out as Malik tightened his arm's hold.

"- okay, maybe you would. I'm from someplace that isn't here. I doubt you've heard of -" Desmond bit his tongue as he felt the murderous intent raise the longer he put the answer off. "- maybe you have. Okay. Okay. Shit..." Lowering his hands, the assassin licked his lips nervously. "America."

"'America?'"

The young man let out a relieved breath when the elder pulled his arm back entirely and was no longer threatening his life, which had been dangling on a thin string since he got here. Moving to stand, Desmond turned to look at the other whom was watching him carefully. "Yeah...'America.'"

* * *

**Why do I get the feeling I'm wrong about where Desmond's from...  
**


	7. Distrust

**Assassination's note:** Yes, I know, I'm a terrible person for not updating in so long. I'm a terrible person for not being able to just figure out how to get this chapter to flow. It might be terrible, just a fair warning. Also, personally, I think Malik might like Desmond more than Altair for reasons. Others might disagree with me there and that's _okay_. Also, if I'm wrong what language or race they are, tell me. My friend tells me one, fics tell me another.  
Here is where I _italicize _words to show that they're speaking a different language - well, to show that Desmond doesn't know what they're saying.

* * *

Now, either it was him or not, that answer brought about an onslaught of questions. Obviously the first being, "Where is this 'America?'" and so on, eventually Desmond slipping and bringing up electronics and other things he probably shouldn't have. Say instant coffee. That lead to a rather humorous debate.

It was surprising how much fun it was to talk with Malik, how he would rub his chin when in deep thought, furrow his brows and start scowling when the debates would get so deep and longer. At times they let the other win, others they waited it out by trying to outdo and get the opposite man to surrender. Again: it was actually fun. Not only that but Malik would show Desmond the scrolls and maps within the bureau.

That is, after Desmond finally convinced him that he was an assassin and not a Templar.

Which was a task in itself, but putting that aside...

Altair must not have known what he was missing. Now, even though his attention span to educational stuff was lacking now, Desmond was actually engaged in what was being shown, leaning in close to see what was being pointed out and going to far as to ask questions about this and that. Malik was more than willing to answer them. Never got irritated, never scowled, and never even mentioned the word 'novice' once.

Well, never said it out loud to Desmond's face. Who knew what was going on in the man's head.

Eventually Malik had pointed out that the other's clothing choice was rather...in simpler terms: stuck out like a sore thumb. He wasn't going to argue with him there, not one bit, since it was true. If his first impression was anything to go by. So they'd ventured to the back, right when a certain assassin decided to drop in.

"_Malik?_" was called out.

Desmond actually stiffened when he heard the man's name be called out, holding onto a spare dai jacket that had been handed to him. His hold tightened and swallowed thickly. Yep, he could tell, the assassin was irritated. Both were. The ex-bartender peered over his shoulder whilst Malik made his way to the front, pushing the curtain separating the rooms aside before stepping through.

"_What do you want, Altair?_" the dark haired A-Sayf questioned, his tone a little on edge.

Massive difference from how he spoke to Desmond, well...a tad. Taking into consideration that Malik was still angry about Solomon's Temple. Still, _ouch_.

Desmond actually felt sorry for Altair, having to now hear it through his own ears and not the Syrian's. Biting his lower lip, he slid on the shirt that rested on the bed then the jacket. Now, he would've put his hoodie back on but - Oh shit. His hoodie was still on the ground where the pillows were.

"_I have completed my mission._"

"_...well done, novice._"

This was where Altair would give Malik the feather to then be shooed off. If he recalled right.

"_Malik,_"

_Wait...wait. Wait a damn minute. Don't tell me..._ Desmond paused as he was clipping the top button of sorts. _...don't tell me..._

"_What is that?_"

There was an irritated sigh before Desmond decided to poke his head out from the back, as dressed as can be of this timezone. Though still in his denim jeans. If one cared about fashion sense right now, they'd say he was a fashion disaster. He froze once a pair of golden eyes turned towards him.

His hand gripped the fabric beneath his fingertips, staring back before averting towards his hoodie. Which just so happened to be what Altair had been pointing at and questioning. Swallowing roughly, Desmond stepped into the room fully, releasing the curtain and slowly making his way over to his bloodied jacket. Ever so slowly. Yes, he was a bit on edge.

Who wouldn't be? His ancestor was covered in blood for pete's sake. If that isn't scary enough, then perhaps how he was watching him so intently was.

Desmond didn't need to worry about that for long since Altair decided he wasn't worth his time and turned his attention back to Malik. "_How did he get here?_"

Malik frowned at the question, resting his elbow on the counter while rubbing his chin. "_I brought him here._"

"_Why would you do such?!_" the assassin hissed, crossing his arms then motioning over to Desmond with his chin. "_He might be a Templar for all we know. Besides that there is something off about him._"

"_How harsh of you,_" the elder sighed, obviously irritated by the opposite's words, "_he is fine, Altair. Dezmund is not a Templar_." He then turned his attention to the young assassin, whom was picking up his jacket and standing. Wincing, a little. "_Besides, he is harmless...well, to us._" A chuckle came at this, which caused Desmond to turn and look over at the other two with a scowl beginning to form.

He couldn't tell if they were making fun of him or not, so forgive him if he feels offended. _Damn language barriers_, crossed his mind before tucking his hoodie under his arm.

"_...I still don't trust him._" was all Altair could supply. Ignoring the fact that Desmond said his name earlier.

"_Play nice. He is far from home._"

Altair's eyes were on him again, causing Desmond to stare back. Figuring he may as well stand his ground and not look like he as a pansy. He wasn't, he'd taken down some guards since his appearance. Sure, he couldn't run as long as Altair could, knew he couldn't take an arrow to the shoulder and remove it himself... That sounded bad too.

Slowly his ancestor made his way over to him, looking him over as if assessing what he was capable of or what 'little' potential the young man might possess. Once he was standing a few feet away, Altair uncrossed his arms. "_Dezmund..._"

"Uh...hey?" Desmond rose a brow at the mispronunciation of his name. Malik had done the same. Perhaps he may as well just get used to it. He blinked once he noticed Altair giving him an odd look. "...thanks for earlier."

Again, the weird look.

_Language barriers, gotta love them..._


	8. Trailed

**Assassination's note:** I figured that since I was still on an updating roll (or sorts) that I would present all of you with another chapter, even though it's probably short. That and I'm really excited for the 26th. _Really excited._ Also, on another note, I'll be _italicizing _Desmond's words when he's speaking Altair and Malik's language. Yeah...kinda spoiled something there...  
I'll also try responding to reviews, because I want all of you to know that I _do_ appreciate them. I'm just a little awkward and unsure when I answer stuff nowadays.

* * *

If Desmond were to wrap up how the end of his first day in Jerusalem went...well, he'd simply say that it was a living _Hell_.

Starting with the fact that he had to run for his life and nearly ended it himself. Along with the guards and swords and blood - yeah. It was a living Hell. End of the line was how Altair kept looking at him funny as if he didn't trust him. That annoyed him to no end. If he wasn't trustworthy then he would have stabbed the man in the back when they were fighting the guards.

If he had been a Templar he would have killed Malik and wouldn't have slaughtered the guards. Well, he didn't exactly slaughter them but close enough.

It had been a few days after he wound up here. Each time he awoke he'd lost a little hope that he was just dreaming. Though...shouldn't he be glad he was free of Abstergo?

Sitting up on the batch of pillows, Desmond leaned his elbows atop his knees, brows slanting. During the course of the days, Malik had taken him clothes shopping, hiding the young man's clothes in the process. They both went shopping for ink, paper, which had Malik ask him what the paper where he was from was like, and clothes. It wasn't that it made Desmond homesick, since here he was 'free.'

It just made him wonder if he would be stuck here.

Desmond glanced to the side, noticing that Malik walked out of his sleeping quarters. Half-dressed. The ex-bartender couldn't blame him for wanting less layers, it was ridiculously hot some days and some not. Again...he only knew this when he invaded Altair's memories.

He shifted where he sat, placing a hand on the ground as he twisted his upper half to look over at the other assassin fully. They'd found Desmond some loose clothing, where he could be mobile, able to run if needed and even had a hood. Just to try and keep his head cool. Said hood was off at this point as his chocolate colored eyes lowered to his bare hand.

Desmond's injury was still healing. He gave his companion-of-sorts credit for being able to bear with the pain he had. It made him cringe when he thought about it. The condition he'd seen it in through Altair's eyes had his stomach twist. It had almost made him feel the need to rush to the nearest toilet, but he couldn't at the time. Still, he was sure the pain was excruciating.

Malik must have noticed him pondering over something because he moved over to Desmond, tapping his head with an unused roll of paper. "What is troubling you, Dezmund?"

The tap jerked the young man out of his thoughts, tipping his head back to lock sights with the dai. His chest vibrated with the contemplating sound he'd made, raising his hand to rub the back of his neck as Desmond turned his eyes away. "Nothing. I was just..." He couldn't help that his gaze went to Malik's missing arm. Unlike how when he was only allowed along for a rough ride, through the Animus, he couldn't control himself.

It was as if his curiosity laid itself bare, not hidden behind Altair's stoic exterior.

Dark orbs turned, following Desmond's line of sight, to then notice that the boy had been staring at his arm.

With a soft sigh, Malik moved his right hand to place itself against the stump, the paper crinkling a bit from the action. Desmond's breath caught in his throat, swallowing thickly as his fingers flexed, his mind screaming for him to say he was sorry, that that had been rude of him - to fucking stand up and look his host in the eyes. The problem was...the American couldn't get his body to agree and act out what he wanted.

Instead he merely lowered his head, gnawing on his lower lip. "Malik, I -"

"Do not worry yourself, Dezmund." came from the Syrian, his tone slightly on edge.

"...I'm sorry." The ex-bartender turned to face the fountain, curling his knees and placing his elbows on them as his hands rested on his biceps. "I shouldn't have - shit...I'm sorry." Desmond tightened his hold while closing his eyes.

Malik stared down on the younger male, the one who resembled Altair but didn't act like him at all.

Letting out a soft exhale, the dai lowered his hand from where he'd placed it. This boy was like a breath of fresh air, so curious and attentive when Malik had talked to him. They had even begun lessons to teach Desmond their mother tongue. Poor Desmond had a terrible time with some words, even the most basic, but the effort was admirable.

Though what happened next, the other man did not expect. Malik had lightly smacked him upside the head with the roll of paper. A surprised cry was his response, Desmond tipping forth but caught himself by placing a hand on the pillows. He turned his head, eyes round and owlish, staring at the dark haired assassin as if he had lost a few marbles.

Which was highly unlikely, but still possible.

"W...what was that for?" Desmond questioned, a hand raised and placed on the back of his head, finally getting himself to stand and face his host.

"I do not need you pitying me nor do I need you to sulk." was the simple response. This had the lightly tanned Miles blink, confused for a slight moment before realizing what the rafiq was talking about.

Malik still had his pride, even with an arm missing he could still kick some ass. Another thing was that the other seemed to like his company only when he wasn't moping and not doing the whole, 'Oh...poor me. The world's against me. Boo-hoo.' Upon actually realizing this, Desmond's face grew hot. God, was he really that dense? How did he not see that he'd just about fallen into a pit of depression.

Returning his attention to Malik, the ex-bartender felt his lips tug back into a soft smile. "Right. You're absolutely right."

"Good. Now, eat something. We have a long day ahead of us."

* * *

Desmond stood still, glancing over his shoulder towards a tall building. Nothing there. Odd, he was sure he was being followed.

He looked forth once more, holding onto a makeshift bag made from cloth, running his eyes over the food available for purchase. Malik had sent him to restock supplies, for once letting the man go out on his own. Maybe this was a test, to see if he'd realized he was being followed, to have him prove once and for all that he is an assassin. That he was useful.

This thought had his jaw clench, tightening his hold on the bag as he swallowed thickly. "_I...I would like..._"

Dammit. Why did it have to be so hard to just say what he wanted?

_Maybe I'm getting nervous..._ Chocolate spheres veered to the side, swearing that he was indeed being followed. _...dammit._

He rose his hand, uncurling his fingers, counting off in Arabic in his head until he reached four. Nodding to himself, Desmond rose his head to look at the vendor. Said man giving him an odd look.

"Uh..._four. I would like four._" he spoke, feeling a bit out of place before handing over the money Malik had given him, soon placing what he'd bought into the bag. The brunet then held it close to his chest with one arm as the other waved to the vendor, wishing him a good day before turning around.

Only to nearly jump out of his skin when he noticed a particular shade of gold staring back at him from the bench that the observer was sitting on. Desmond tightened his hold on the object in his possession, swallowing thickly before averting his gaze to where he'd ventured from. Maybe he could just ignore the other and head back to the bureau. It's not like he needed to stay here longer.

No, he was not beating a retreat because he was kind of _intimidated_ by the man's gaze. Not at all.

With a fleeting glance to the bench, Desmond felt his stomach twist in a knot when the form that was originally there no longer existed.

_Maybe I'm seeing things...?_

Shaking his head, reminding himself he needed to get back, the American turned on his heel and made his way back to the bureau. Yet the feeling from earlier returned, that he was being followed. Clenching his jaw, grabbing onto the top of the bag so its contents wouldn't spill, Desmond broke off into a sprint.


	9. Insulted

**Assassination's note: **I seriously have the feeling everyone will not be happy with what I had happen in this chapter. I really considered rewriting it. (this was written while my internet was out)

* * *

Hawk-like eyes zeroed in on his target, whom fled. They knew they were being followed, which pleased Altair in an odd way. He lunged over to another building, hand grabbing onto a crevice, hauling himself up to rest his feet on loose bricks. The man then made his way up to the roof, scanning the crowd once he'd reached the top, his eyes narrowing underneath the shadows skittering over his face.

Altair took a few steps forth, looking slowly from side to side. It couldn't be that hard to find the boy, surely.

His lips turned downward slightly before noticing some movement on the roof across from his own. It was the person he'd been looking for, well, this made his search all the more simple. Altair quickly and quietly made his way over to an unfinished wall, pressing to it and peering around it to see the young hooded man survey his surroundings carefully.

Malik must have taught him to do such, he assumed. To take to higher ground and try and scout out his enemy...or to avoid conflict easier.

The tanned man's lips tugged up at the side once he saw the boy - _Dezmund,_his mind corrected - tighten his hold on the bag. Good. That meant that Desmond would be cautious with what he was doing.

Or so, Altair thought he would.

The young man just bolted, turning to jump to another, lower roof. At least he'd bent his knees to absorb the impact before standing and continuing his speedy trek back to the bureau.

With a low '_tch_,' Altair made his way to follow, one or two buildings behind where his prey was.

Though Desmond hadn't stabbed him in the back during their first encounter, though he'd convinced Malik he wasn't a threat and even if the rafiq tried to get the assassin to see reason, to see that the youth was simply a novice of the Creed...

Altair just couldn't believe it. Even given those facts, it did little to lower his suspicion.

That and the other man resembled him. Moreso physically than personality, it had taken the Syrian by surprise when he actually got a chance to get a good look at the American. Although it may seem a tad ridiculous how he didn't trust the other, he just didn't.

Not fully at least.

* * *

Malik stood at the counter, bent over with his elbow resting on the wooden surface as he began to rub his forehead with a soft sigh.

He'd expected his charge to be back by now with the food and other things he'd sent him out to retrieve. Just a simple, trivial, errand. Yet, here he was, still waiting...and worried. Yes, he was worried about the foreigner. Desmond still had yet to understand everything about their ways and language, still needed to learn about the area.

The dark haired man cursed lightly. He shouldn't have let the younger man go alone, even though Desmond assured him he'd be gone and back 'in the blink of an eye.' It was an odd expression and the dai had made a mental note to question him about that when he got back. Especially because he'd been blinking and Desmond had not returned as he'd said.

Maybe Desmond had gotten lost? Maybe he'd been fumbling over their mother language? Or -

Malik lowered his hand, features tense.

Or the novice had gotten into a scrap with the guards. They had been picking fights with the civilians more than usual lately. Sure, Desmond had taken down a couple of guards the first day he was here but he'd also had Altair and his help to dispatch the rest. Taking on a group and possibly more just spelled disaster.

_I am going to look for him. _Pushing away from the counter, Malik turned and snatched his dagger off of a shelf's surface, slipping it into its sheath that was attached to his belt.

He stepped around the counter and into the 'lounging area,' as Desmond had called it. The man blinked once he'd caught sight of a shadow flying by the entrance he'd left open. This had Malik raise a brow before seeing a familiar form stop once he'd reached the entrance, leaping and slipping into the room, dropping onto his side painfully. A small roll before said form groaned from pain.

"Dezmund?"

Rolling over onto his back, a pair of chocolate irises peered over to Malik, a hand moving to hold onto his arm that he'd landed on. "Oh...uh...hey." he got out, lips parted and panting as Desmond closed his eyes. "...I..." He licked his lips, swallowing a moment after. "I got the food."

Malik moved over, crouching down and taking hold of the bag with a raised brow. "Why did you run? Was that a guard chasing you?"

Slowly, the breathless male pushed to sit up, continuing to pant for a while longer before coughing. "No...I mean...I dunno. Maybe?" He turned his attention back up to the entrance, eyes widening once he caught sight of white. Immediately he scooted away, placing a hand on his chest, holding onto the fabric tightly. "Fuck! Shit...don't do that!"

Apparently he'd never get used to assassins popping up out of nowhere, Malik figured.

With a sigh, he turned his attention to Altair, eyes narrowing. "_What do you want?_"

The man was not pleased when he concluded that his guest had been running away from Altair. After all, their arrival time was almost exactly at the same time and thinking back to the shadow he'd seen previously...

Altair twisted his form, gripping the ledge and made his way downwards to stand in the room with the other two. Once both feet tapped the ground, the assassin turned to face the bureau leader, gaze then trailing over to the exhausted Miles. With a slightly amused glimmer in amber orbs, he turned his attention back to an irritated Al-Sayf.

"_Calm yourself, Malik,_" he started, "_I bear no ill will. I just happened to be in the area and decided to come see how you and Dezmund were fairing._"

The Syrian took note of how Desmond tensed slightly once his name was said. Malik also noticed this, holding the bag out to the ex-bartender.

"Go put this away." the dark haired rafiq ordered. Desmond pushed himself up to stand and took the sack, moving to leave the room with a soft exhale. As if relieved that he was tossed out of the room and conversation. Once the American was gone, Malik returned his attention to the man opposite him. "_Did you follow him? Altair, I already told you, the boy is trustworthy and means no harm._"

"_I am not so sure about that, Brother._" Altair's eyes traveled over to where the one he'd pursued had gone. "_Something seems a bit off about him._"

Surely Malik had the same feeling as he.

Malik rose his hand to rub his temple. "_What makes you so sure of such?_"

"_Well..._" His voice trailed off.

Meanwhile in the back of the bureau, Desmond was putting the makeshift bag away. The things he'd bought put in its proper place and the money he hadn't spent on the counter by the small pouch where his host placed his spending money. He'd learned over the course of the time that he'd been there that Malik liked to count what hadn't been used and add it back into what he'd written down.

It was odd, but effective, in Desmond's opinion.

The young Miles slumped his shoulders with a soft exhale, tipping his head back as he rose a hand to push his hood back. It was at this moment he wished he was wearing less layers, if nothing else he wished he was back at home, in his apartment, where he could just walk around in his boxers.

Yet, he had to remind himself, this wasn't the time to be thinking such things or streak down to undergarments he didn't have. Yeah...he only had one pair and now he'd been stuck with...well...

Desmond blinked, his ears straining to catch that sound again. It wasn't loud but - he couldn't describe it.

Turning, he made his way over to Malik's closet-of-sorts. It contained his old clothes, the ones from Abstergo, along with a few other pairs. Light clothes. Closing his eyes, Desmond reached up to undo the tie to his top layer, he'd begun to believe that the noise he'd heard had been nothing but something his imagination came up with. After all, the guards were a bit dense to even realize this was a hideout for assassins.

Hell, if he were a guard he might have gotten a little curious at least. Then again, Desmond was glad he wasn't one.

Curiosity killed the cat after all.

Desmond reached down once he'd undone the tie, gripping the end of the shirt to tug it up, slipping off easily along with the hood that had been attached to it. He let out a huff once it was off fully, folding it and standing up a bit on his toes to slip it into the space dedicated to his clothes. Swallowing thickly, he began to cough again. Great. He was thirsty.

This had him scowl, an exact replica of his ancestor's, and cursed. That's what he got for running.

Breathing out slowly, Desmond made his way out to the front, blinking once he'd caught sight of Malik whom looked as if his feathers had been ruffled and he just looked angry beyond belief. Whatever he and Altair had been talking about it must have pushed the wrong buttons. Despite knowing this, the American snuck over as quietly as possible, peering from the doorway to see that Altair, too, looked a bit irked.

What had transpired while he was away?

"_Dezmund is a good man, Altair! Why must you insist on being so difficult?_" the dark haired assassin hissed, jaw clenching as his right hand curled into a fist.

"_As I said, there is something about him that is unsettling._" was Malik's response.

"_I am sure that there is a lot that is unsettling about everyone you meet._"

"_I cannot explain it, Malik...I just don't trust him._"

A heavy sigh came from Malik before blinking and peering over his shoulder once his guest accidentally poked his head out too much, both assassins looking right at the younger man whom now looked like a deer in headlights. Who knew he was now in trouble for eavesdropping on a conversation he barely understood in the first place.

All he caught was his name and something about trust...not trusting him. Really, Altair must have had a large stick shoved up his ass. _No, more like a tree,_ he corrected himself, chuckling on the inside at that thought. _Funny, I'm making fun of a killer and am still alive. Well...he can't read my mind..._

"Dezmund."

Blinking, the ex-bartender glanced over to the dai, seeing that he was being motioned to come into the room. Perhaps a bit reluctant but Malik turned his attention to the other man who was frowning deeply.

"_No. This conversation does not require his input._" Altair scowled, crossing his arms as he kept his sights on the confused assassin who made his way into the room. "_Malik..._"

"_If his presence is an issue then leave._"

Altair clenched his teeth, gripping his biceps tightly as his gaze was intent on Desmond. Said Miles raising a brow and then looking down as he brushed off invisible residue from his shirt's sleeve. That, right there, had the assassin want to force the boy to look up at him. To stop hiding behind Malik, stop doing ridiculous motions and...how the American's face showed each and every single emotion he was feeling.

Desmond must have felt his gaze because the brown hues he possessed raised to lock onto his own. "_...what?_"

This took him off guard a bit. Sure, he'd heard the other speak to the vendor but to be able to have somewhat of a conversation and that the other may just understand him enough by picking out certain words...

"_You have been teaching him our language,_" Altair directed this to Malik who raised his hand to rest it on the other's shoulder. "_He may know our Creed but he is an outsider. He does not belong here._"

"_He is **my** responsibility, not yours. I do not believe you said you would take charge of him._" the dai snipped, his hold on Desmond's shoulder tightening slightly. "_He has interesting stories to share and he may not tell me about how his Brotherhood is, but I do not think it is any different from ours._"

"_That boy still possesses his ring finger, he does not have a hidden blade, nothing to prove he is one of us._" Altair hissed, jaw clenched. "_Nothing but empty promises that he is an assassin._"

Desmond blinked, catching about half of what had been said but he had a feeling he knew what was being said. Then this whole thing about how he had 'empty promises about being an assassin' came into play and that just managed to irritate him to the point where his discomfort vanished. He didn't give a shit if Altair could end his life with the hidden blade or take him down like Desmond was simply a tiny kitten.

Hands clenched into fists, Desmond's expression revealed just how angry he'd become. "Quit being a dick!" he snarled, shrugging off Malik's hand before turning to storm out of the room.

A moment later Malik was laughing, which caused Altair to blink out of his surprised state. Turning his attention to the rafiq, the assassin blinked once again as if asking what the novice had said.

Malik placed his hand over his face, shoulders rocking until he slowly calmed down from his fit. "_I...I believe he just insulted you._" he got out through his chuckles.

* * *

**extra notes:** Yeah...Altair may seem _really_ stubborn but I think it makes sense. After all, I wasn't gonna toss Desmond in after Altair became Grand Master or something (which is pretty obvious). Plus, I can see Altair as the type to be _very_ distrusting of new faces and people.

Also... For those of you who seriously thought that Altair might like Desmond (a bit/lot)...I'm sorry to say: you were wrong. That is going to take a while before it becomes mutual. But don't get discouraged. They'll have their moments...soon...later...soonish...**  
**


	10. Nature's Beauty

Desmond hadn't spoken another word the rest of that day, nor did Altair. Probably still a bit taken aback by the insult that had been tossed his way but not translated.

Malik had decided to keep the man in the dark, which may have been a bad idea in the long run yet the rafiq did not care. The novice shouldn't have picked a fight with his charge, shouldn't have riled the young eagle up because it then meant that Malik would have a moody assassin in training on his hands - well, hand. Point was: the Al-Sayf didn't like Desmond being angry and upset.

It was a sad and disheartening sight to say the least. In it's own odd way it was also endearing.

How the young man was like a tiny bird puffing its chest out and ruffling its feathers, squaking and twittering in an irritated manner.

Though, at this moment, Malik was putting his dagger back on the shelf while his comrade was settled on the batches of pillows, cleaning his blades and making sure all was organized and working properly. Altair seemed unsettled, his eyes distant even as his hand holding a rock ran along his sword to sharpen it. All that was heard was the sharpening of a blade and breathing. There were some sounds of the civilians bustling about, bantering and chatting, along with a few birds chirping.

Desmond was resting in the back, on the dai's cot, nestled under a blanket. He'd drank some wine beforehand, making an odd comment of, "Hello, gorgeous."

Malik hadn't questioned the youth's happiness to the beverage, seeing as it seemed to bring back pleasant memories.

The bureau leader rubbed his face, the quill he'd been writing with resting on the counter. Its ink having dried and the parchment before him adorned with thick lines and simple drawings, clearly a new map for the surrounding area. He didn't want to bother with it anymore, he would rather be talking to the boy and teaching him.

It was strange how he'd grown used to Desmond's presence, how the curious man would ask him about things, learn and even teach Malik in return. Even if it was just enhancing his vocabulary of the English language, he knew it would come in handy in the near future.

Slowly, Malik turned his attention back to Altair once the metallic grinds ceased. The sight he was greeted with surprised him slightly, for the assassin simply sat there with his gaze straight ahead. Altair's brows were creased, lips pursed in a thin line, hands' hold tight and his knuckles had turned a lighter shade than his naturally dark tone, golden irises narrowed slightly.

Even if the other looked angry, the aura surrounding him was confusion, curiousity and a tinge of hurt. Noticing this had Malik raise a brow, he had to be seeing things, surly. There was no way that the 'almighty' Altair bn-La'Ahad could have been emotionally wounded by a plain jab that was said only from frustration. Fed up frustration but still. It's not like Desmond had meant it, though the dai had the oddest feeling that that was only wishful thinking on his end.

He turned to see that said Miles had risen from his resting state, standing there in the doorway with dishevled hair and dazed chocholate hues. Desmond rose his left hand, rubbing the side of his neck with a tired groan as he closed his eyes while his right moved to rid his eyes of remaining sleep. Yawning, the American then lowered his hands to blink once he noticed that Malik was watching him with an amused look.

True, the rafiq had seen this sight a handful of times but it was still amusing. Especially when the other man's cheeks would turn a dark red from embarrassment like they were right at this moment.

"Uh...hey."

"Did you sleep well, Dezmund?" Malik questioned, turning his attention elsewhere, reaching out for the feather to dip it into the ink. He added more lines as he waited patiently for his answer, twirling his wrist at one point.

"Yeah, I guess." Desmond shifted, his hands resting on his lower back, leaning back to stretch before walking around the counter to face the rafiq. Just to be polite, that and he was used to talking to Malik this way, perhaps more of a habit than anything. "So...what'd I miss?" He leaned forth to look at the map, eyes running over each line slowly and carefully.

"Not much. Altair is going to be leaving tomorrow as far as I am concerned."

Another dip into the black substance, back to the paper.

"Oh..." The brunet fell silent, cautiously turning his sights over to the assassin whom went back to sharpening his blade. "Hey, look," Desmond returned his attention to Malik, "I'm sorry about earlier. Guess I'm just -"

Next thing the ex-bartender knew was that the quill was put down, a calloused hand covering his mouth and that dark eyes were staring straight into his own. Malik's eyes narrowed slightly in warning, telling the other to silence himself and not finish his sentence. Desmond's own eyes widened from shock, breath caught in his throat as he then swallowed thickly, inhaling the scent of ink, earth and spices.

"Hush, Dezmund. All is well, do not worry yourself over it." the bureau leader spoke, voice soft enough so only the recipient could hear. After he'd received a nod, he lowered his hand to rest it against the wooden surface. "I do not want you to concern yourself over the manner. Altair is a grown man, he has probably heard worse."

"Well, yeah, but -" The youth snapped his mouth shut when Malik narrowed his eyes once again. "Sorry."

There was no point in starting up a mindless dispute anyway.

* * *

Nightfall had soon arrived, the only light source being torches and candles.

Desmond had poked his head out to peer into the lobby, brows crinkled from confusion once he saw no sign of his ancestor. Carefully and as quietly as possible, the ex-bartender made his way to the entrance that wasn't latched shut for the night. That was odd since Malik liked to close the hatch when he was positive that no one would be coming or going, especially not this late at night.

It was then that the brunet tensed, his hands curled into fists as he crept over to the fountain, cautious in case a guard may just have found the bureau and had gone to alert the others. Unlikely but still possible. Swallowing thickly, Desmond reached out to grab onto a loosened brick, placing his foot atop the faucet to aid him in his assent. He gripped the ledge, straining his ears to hear if there were any guards before slowly raising his head to peer over and scout out the rooftop.

Nothing.

The youth let out a heavy breath, relieved, and hauled himself up and over. Once he was out of the bureau, Desmond stood up straight and inhaled deeply, making his way forth until he was standing right in the middle as he cocked his head back to peer up at the vast skies. What he saw blew his mind. Billions upon billions of stars were in the sky, twinkling and shimmering brightly, in all their glory.

His brown eyes widened, turning slowly with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Desmond had seen stars before, having gone to visit his grandparents in the country and whatnot but this, this could not compare. They were natural and more than in the future, or, well, it was less polluted by factories and oil companies accidentally spilling and ruining the water. It was just all natural beauty.

He soon paused in his stargazing once he heard what sounded like shoes scrapping against the wall. Turning on his heel sharply, Desmond blinked once he saw that Altair was lifting himself up onto the roof. He watched silently as the man dusted off his sleeves, observed as the Syrian rose a hand to push back his hood and swallowed when the other's golden eyes locked onto his own.

The American couldn't tell if Altair was just as surprised as he was to see him, yet also felt his tongue poke out to lick his lips nervously, wondering if the assassin was still angry about earlier. If he'd figured out exactly what Desmond had called him.

"Hey, look, I -" Desmond's voice failed him, blinking once he noticed something adorning the other man's face.

_Wait...is that...?_ He squinted to get a better look then flinched as he saw that Altair as indeed bleeding from his temple. _Fuck. Did a guard get lucky or something?_

The assassin turned his head away, as if trying to divert Desmond's attention elsewhere, his lips curved downward in a stern frown. It didn't seem like the tanned man desired the novice's worry which was more than a bit irritating, even though the young man should have suspected as such. All he could do at this moment was slump his shoulders and turn his gaze away.

It didn't seem that there was a high chance Altair would let him worry openly. Not like Desmond was going to anyway, the other was a grown man and an assassin. He didn't need to be babied or fussed over.

When he looked back over to his ancestor, the brunet blinked as he took note of how the ibn-La'Ahad's back was to him, sitting on the ledge. Head tipped back and looking up at the stars just as he'd done previously. Letting out a heavy exhale, the ex-bartender made his way over while also being mindful of the man's personal space. Desmond choose to stand a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, cocking his head back to take in nature's beauty once more.

"_It is not as beautiful back where I come from,_" the American spoke, chocolate orbs turning to look over at his companion whom looked up at him.

Funny how Altair's posture was almost exactly the same as when he sat on a bench to avoid detection.

"You're not very social, y'know." was the next thing he said along with a chuckle added on.

It was as if, at that moment, a silent, temporary, truce had been shared as both men turned their attention back to the sky.

* * *

**Assassination's note:** I hope Altair wasn't OOC...  
Here you go: a moment between Altair and Desmond just like I said. Doesn't seem like much, huh? A little goes a long way though.

Anyway...I was actually planning on posting this on the 22nd since that was when the first chapter was posted but...it's the holidays and I figured you would all be busy. So...here's an early chapter. Happy holidays!


	11. Foreboding

**Assassination's note:** Now, I know, there are some of you who are getting a bit fed up with Malik being around and 'romance-blocking(?)' and whatnot since chapter four but...I feel he's necessary. So I'm sorry for dragging out his welcome - _if_ I am. All I'm asking is that you all bear with me (and Malik) for a bit longer. (seriously, I have the feeling some of you might be going, 'Argh! Malik, stop butting in! ROAR!')

* * *

A clash of steel rang out in the morning air, along with a grunt accompanying it. The series of clangs continued to go on for a while longer before there was a pained groan that rose from the depths of a man's chest as he lie on the ground, chest heaving with his head lolled back. The blade they'd once held a few feet away from their outstretched arm and open hand.

Said male on the ground being Desmond Miles.

His opponent stood before him, dagger held tightly in their grasp as they peered down at him with lips parted. A tongue darted out to run over them before taking a step back and sheathing the blade. "You have gotten better, Dezmund." he praised before reaching his hand out for the other to take. "Let us take a break for a while."

Nodding slowly, Desmond shifted to sit up on his elbows to then take hold of Malik's hand. Once hoisted up onto his two feet, the youth placed his opposite hand on a bent knee as he panted heavily. They'd been sparring for the past few hours. All upon his request, of course. His host had been rather uncertain and confused at the suggestion when it was presented.

Plus, just as the dark haired dai had said, Altair had indeed left to head to Acre for his next mission. Well, at least the assassin had dressed his wound before leaving.

Though Desmond was somewhat disappointed that even if they'd come to a truce last night, it seemed as if very little progress had been made. Altair didn't talk much and most of the conversation was just _silence_. Pure, chilling, silence. It wasn't as if he'd hoped that his ancestor would be chatty - that would most likely happen when Hell froze over, seeing as the elder didn't come off as a talkative person from the beginning or ever. Then again it seemed reasonable given how he was raised and the circumstances.

And how Malik didn't seem to want them to be left alone in a room for too long.

Not that the novice could blame his host for acting as such since that little 'dick' outburst. Speaking of said incident, it had been about another week since that ordeal, so Desmond truly had begun to lose track of the days he'd been with the rafiq. He didn't mind Malik's company, not at all, he really did enjoy it.

"Yeah, sure." Releasing Malik's hand, the brunet rose to his full height, only to cringe when his muscles screamed their protests. "...I think I pulled something."

A chuckle was his friend's response. Yes, they had become friends. Shocking, Desmond knew, taking into account how many days he'd stayed here that would originally prevent this 'fast-friends' thing, but no. It didn't. Hell, how many days has it been?

He watched as the bureau leader headed towards the back, into his room to then return with a bottle of wine, much to Desmond's relief. Although he was starting to miss the taste of water - even if water didn't have a taste. True, the water in this time was possibly contaminated or something but wine every single day was starting to kill his taste buds. Funny because he was a bartender and he would knock back a few drinks with customers from time to time.

Shaking his head vigorously, the young Miles rose a hand to rub his face, sliding his fingers through his hair a bit harshly. He had to stop thinking about home, least he worry Malik and that just wouldn't do at all.

* * *

After what felt like years, Desmond had finally managed to parry _almost_ each blow thrown his way without being knocked back or stumbling backwards. His right hand swapped the short sword to his left, twisting his wrist just in time to stop the strike that would have most likely sliced his leg. Gritting his teeth, the assassin in training furrowed his brows as he shifted his foot to hold his ground while his teacher placed more pressure.

His jaw clenched, knuckles turning white before Desmond jerked his hand, shoving the opposing sword away. He shifted back some feet, lips parted with soft pants and sweat sliding down the side of his face.

Hell, Malik seemed to be getting more aggressive with him the more he progressed. Which wasn't making this any easier, yet wasn't that the point? It wasn't like the guards would go easy on him or that he'd have back-up like last month.

Still, when Desmond had come to the conclusion that hoping to be sent back was just wishful thinking, he'd decided he would just prove his worth and do what he could. Training, running errands, helping Malik sort out the maps, continue his lessons on their culture and language, everything that Desmond could do he did. No questions asked.

Altair hadn't paid a visit at all, being sent elsewhere instead of Jerusalem.

Even though the rafiq had assured him that Altair was fine when he'd asked, Desmond wasn't so sure about that. Call it 'gut instinct.'

A gasp came from the brunet, barely blocking the blow to his side, needing to place his right hand's palm against the end of the short sword to stop the strike entirely. Gritting his teeth with a hiss, the young man then realized that he'd spaced out and buried himself into his thoughts.

It seemed like Malik had noticed this as well since he pulled his blade back, eying his charge with a questioning gaze.

Swallowing, Desmond slowly pulled his cut hand away from his weapon, clenching his hand into a fist in an attempt to cease the bleeding. Chocolate eyes fell halfway shut, looking down on the blood stained steel, watching as the crimson fluid slipped downward and dripped. The American then turned his attention to his hand, seeing it do the same.

"I...uh..."

"Dezmund," the dai's tone was sharp, almost receiving a cringe from said Miles, "do not lie to me. I can tell you are worried about something."

Desmond rose his gaze to lock onto charcoal, feeling frozen in place with the look he was getting. It wasn't disappointment from becoming distracted in the midst of a duel, no, rather it was one of minor frustration. Like a parent who kept telling their child there were no monsters hiding under the bed for over more than a year. It was a look that had him avert his attention to the side, to the floor, anywhere except for where his mentor stood.

"Sorry, it won't happen again, let's just st-"

"No."

This had the brunet blink, whipping his head to stare at Malik with wide eyes.

"Put the sword down, Dezmund, and go rest."

"But I -" Desmond snapped his trap shut, deciding it best not to argue with his friend. Nothing good would come of it anyway. So, with the utmost reluctance, the ex-bartender made his way over to the weapon's rack to place the blade in its proper place. "...all right."

He then went to go get the supplies to bandage up his hand.

All the while, Malik watched Desmond with a concerned expression beginning to surface once he knew the boy was out of the room. He didn't know what had distracted the young man, that was true, but what he did know was that he couldn't do anything to rest Desmond's thoughts. It seemed as if his student was holding back, bottling up everything, as if he couldn't confide in the dai.

Frustrating. It was downright _frustrating_ that he was left in the dark, guessing what was dwelling on the youth's mind. Then again he was worried as well, wondering just when he would be found out in housing a man whom possessed such likeness to Altair, when someone besides he or said assassin would run into Desmond.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head slowly before making his way to put his own weapon away to then turn and see his guest return, hand bandaged up.

"Dezmund..." Malik paused once brown eyes lifted to lock onto his own, taken aback by how the brown had melted to a darker chocolate, by the seriousness that was lashing about in them. With a slow inhale and exhale, he started once more. "Dezmund, what is on your mind?"

This had the bartender avert his gaze, pursing his lips with his thin brows knitting themselves together. "It's just...I just think something bad's gonna happen soon. Or it has. I - well...I dunno. Something doesn't feel right, y'know?" While saying this, Desmond had crossed an arm under the opposite's elbow, hand raised and twisting about. As if, in doing so, it would show what he meant. "I know it sounds crazy but I'm serious."

* * *

Altair planted his back against a wall, hand placed firmly against his side as he grit his teeth, golden hues whipping towards the opening of the dirty alleyway. His lips were parted slightly, panting heavily with a cringe and tightening his hold on the bleeding site.

A guard had taken him by surprise, much to his disgust, and got him good. The wound was oozing blood still and the assassin didn't have much time to do a minor patch-up that would hold until he reached the bureau to then get a more proficent medical application to the gash. Just thinking about it had him press his palm even closer than physically possible - which was mostly a failed attempt to stop any further blood flow than what was being held off with how he was holding it now.

Altair closed his eyes halfway, listening to the bells chime. Listening as guards hustled and rushed about to try and track him down, hearing people talk amoungst themselves and the gossip spreading about on how Abu'l Nuqoud had been assassinated.

If he could risk it, the wounded Syrian would have chuckled.

This scene played out a lot during his years of this profession, all the same threats, same chatter and same blows being given and taken.

Though, this time, it felt different. Like an out of body experience. He recalled a time when he would feel as if someone else was with him, that they wouldn't let anything hurt him if it was within their power. A guardian angel of sorts, or perhaps a demon.

He swallowed thickly, closing his eyes as he placed most of his weight back against the wall. He knew he had to get back to the bureau, hand in the feather soaked in his prey's blood and rest - but, honestly, he wasn't sure if he'd make it if the guards surrounded him as they had once he'd finished talking to Abu'l. Not that this was anything new but with how many there were, even with the skills he possessed, it was a task to get out of the area.

Altair then caught sight of a group of scholars once he opened his eyes, relief washing over him as he pushed away from the wall and made his way over to them.

* * *

**extra note:** Also, before I forget...something was brought to my attention, so I have tossed up a poll on my profile for this story, please take a look at it if you have the time. (If Altair happened to be OOC _this_ time...well, I have no excuse...besides that I felt I should show how things are going on Altair's end.)


	12. Contemplation

**Assassination's note:** Okay, so...it took me a while to update this. I know. Sorry. I was having a bit of a hard time writing this and there's going to be repetitive 'rafiq' and 'bureau leader' in this chapter because the guy doesn't have a name - at least from what I recall and what I saw on the wiki.

I hope you guys don't mind me focusing on Altair a bit. I'll apologize ahead of time if he's not in character. (I've been playing Golden Sun lately.) Another thing I want to add is: I want to thank those of you who took the poll. I didn't mean to 'put anyone on the spot,' as the saying goes. That, and, I was really concerned you were getting impatient with how long it's taking for Altair and Desmond to connect.

* * *

At the sound of someone entering the bureau, the rafiq turned his attention away from his current assignment. "Ah, welcome ba-" His words came to an abrupt halt at the sight that Altair presented. The man was panting, looked like a mess and his garb was drenched in blood. "We should patch that up." When he saw Altair nod and head towards the nest of pillows, he headed towards the back to gather up supplies to complete the task now at hand.

Though once the assassin reached the cushions, his legs gave out on him, collapsing onto the soft surface below with a grunt. His left hand was outstretched, keeping him from falling flat on his face as the Syrian closed his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Altair sucked in a breath before slowly inching his way to turn so he could sit up properly. He turned his attention towards where the bureau leader had gone to see that the man was hurrying over with a bowl, towel, needle and thread.

After placing the objects down, the rafiq gestured for the assassin to remove his clothes so he could get to the injury better and be sure he got all of them, if there were more.

With a deep inhale, Altair went about undoing the clasp to the dagger's holster, closing his eyes as it pulled at the gash. His right hand took hold of the leather strap resting on his shoulder, pulling it off and away, placing the holder down next to him. A moment later he began to remove his bracer, hidden blade coming off next, though rather reluctant to do so.

He'd never admit it but without the comforting weight of the blade, he felt vulnerable.

Once they were set aside, Altair undid the belt and grabbed onto the sash to unwind it. Next was his remaining weapons and tunic then his grey long-sleeved shirt. Folding them, his jaw clenched as his wound throbbed. It was frustrating how he'd allowed this to happen - accident or not. Golden eyes rose to stare at the wall before him, eying the fountain with his lips pursed.

The bureau leader had waited patiently as his comrade did as instructed, biting the end of the needle so he wouldn't lose it as he submerged the rag. Pulling it out, the rafiq dabbed, gently, at the injury to rid of the crimson that was staining and slowly receding. Which was good, it wouldn't be good if Altair kept bleeding more than he had.

That also meant that the Syrian wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

When he was sure most of the blood was gone, he put the towel back into the bowl and took the needle from between his teeth to slip the thread through. The rafiq then set about to stitch Altair's wound up, receiving a grunt at first then absolute silence as he continued his task.

As his brother in arms was focused on the procedure of sewing him back up, Altair's eyes fell shut while he let his mind drift off to contemplate what Abu'l had said to him just before he struggled for one last breath. Before death took him into its embrace and dragged him into the depths.

* * *

"So this is about vengeance?"

"No. Not vengeance." the man frowned, looking a bit saddened at this accusation. "But my conscious. How could I finance a war in service to the same God that calls me an 'abomination?'"

Altair's hold tightened on the front of the merchant's robes, tugging at the fabric with his jaw clenching slightly. Knuckles turning a pigment lighter than his tanned flesh. "If you do not serve Saladin's cause, then whose?"

"In time, you will come to know them." Abu'l's lips tugged up in the tiniest mention of amusement with how confused the assassin seemed to be at this moment. "I think, perhaps, you already do."

"Then why hide? And why these dark deeds?"

"Is it so different from your own work?" the merchant prodded, his eyes locked onto golden irises, gaze intense and challenging. "You take the lives of men and women, strong in the conviction that their deaths will improve the lots of those left behind: a minor evil for a greater good." A bitter chuckle rose from the depths of the man's chest, coughing a bit though his lips were curved into a smile. "We are the same!"

Altair's eyes widened, thankful that his hood obscured the sight from his dying target. "No!" he hissed, his left hand loosening its hold to then release the purple robe, turning his head so as to not look down on Abu'l any longer. "We are nothing alike!"

"Ah...but I see it in your eyes. You doubt." He noticed how Altair's neck muscles tensed, his right hand tightening. "You cannot stop us..."

The merchant's eyes dulled, voice hoarse, his strength weakening as his head slowly fell back to rest on the bloodied tiles.

"We will have our 'New World.'"

* * *

Altair wondered who Abu'l was talking about. How could he know this person yet not know who they were at the same time? He felt like he was getting nowhere, as if he was taking two steps back for each he took forth. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. Not in the slightest. It was as if he was a dog chasing his own tail, though the tail was actually his thoughts. Trying to find an answer with no solid leads.

All the Templars spoke in riddles, or so they seemed to be.

He was missing a key component, he was sure of it. He needed to settle this storm, needed answers, needed to be reassured that what he was doing was right. That he was nothing like Abu'l. Nothing like the Templars.

Altair decided he needed to ask Al Mualim for the answers to the questions he, himself, couldn't.

His eyes opened, noticing that the bureau leader had finished stitching him up and was behind the counter, looking over a map spread out on the wooden surface with a candle lit. It was dark outside, which surprised him slightly. It seemed as if he'd been too lost in thought to realize how much time had passed, how long he'd been sitting there without saying his thanks to the other.

"...thank you, brother."

A chuckle was his answer. "Rest, Altair. You will not be going anywhere for some time."

Not exactly something he needed to be reminded of, though Altair knew the other meant well. He exhaled slowly, moving to pull on his long sleeved shirt so he didn't feel the chill biting at his senses more than he already was. Rubbing his left wrist after the shirt was on, the assassin's eyes swept his surroundings to see that his equipment was placed in the corner nearest him.

Pleased that they were close, he turned his attention up towards the grate.

Stars filled the sky, looking as if they'd continue going on for miles and even more than that. Forever. _"It is not as beautiful back where I come from."_

He closed his eyes halfway, forearms resting on his thighs and legs crossed. The injured man wondered if that was really true and, if so, what did it look like from where Desmond hailed from. Altair had noticed how Desmond had sounded...happy when he said 'beautiful.' As if this sight was uncommon and rare. Perhaps it was.

The Syrian's right arm moved, drumming his fingers against his knee as a new thought came to him.

Why had he saved Desmond from falling to his death?

Altair's fingers paused, the tips resting on his leg as he furrowed his brows. Indeed, why had he? It wasn't as if he was obligated to help some random person who was leaping to their death, who had done something so damn suicidal. Then again, Desmond preformed a_ Leap of Faith_ - something only assassins knew. Though the jump was a bit miscalculated.

The American even convinced Malik he was one of their brothers, although from someplace far away. Malik. He convinced _Malik_. Which was a difficult thing to do, the man was probably the most stubborn person Altair had ever known.

Maybe that's why he didn't feel he could trust Desmond...?

No. That wasn't it.

Raising his left hand, the former master assassin ran his fingers through his short, brown, locks.

That wasn't why, Altair knew. It was probably because whenever he looked at the other he felt like something was pushing at the back of his head, telling him he had to trust the boy. As if he chose not to then something terrible would happen, that Desmond was there for him, would save him - He scowled at the thought, fingers lightly gripping his hair. Save him? From _what_?

There wasn't _anything_ he needed saving from.

_"Dezmund is a good man, Altair! Why must you insist on being so difficult?"_

Lowering his hand, Altair moved to lay on his back, returning his attention to the stars. Eventually, he closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly.

Maybe Malik was right.


End file.
